I'll Open My Legs if You Open this Page

October 2, 2012, 10:00 pm

By Caroline Morgan

I like to think that the inside of my mind is kind of like
the inside of some British old men’s drinking club. In reality, it’s probably a
little bit closer to the Matador (dark, overfull and just a little bit dirty).

I imagine that those of you who aren’t calling the Reporter
to have me burnt at the stake for my failure to repent my whorish ways probably
have similar minds. Yes, it’s true, not everyone loves me (my personal favorite
was a phone call: “Caroline
Morgan is foul...disgusting...makes you lose your lunch”).

It’s only natural, then, that I would encounter a reader at
the Matador. This happened for the first time following the Wilco concert (which,
by the way, was badass).

My friend KE and I decided to hit the Matador for some
celebratory whiskey and refreshing PBRs. Shockingly, I was not on the prowl.
Enter Reader.

Reader had something of a boyish charm about him. He started
off strong, saying we were the prettiest girls at the bar (flattery will get
you everywhere). Then he told us he couldn’t decide who was hotter.

We told him not to choose (it’s never a good idea to pit
potential bones against each other). He didn’t listen.

Apparently, boy was looking for some Christian Grey kind of
sexy fun time, because Reader wanted to hook up with me because I looked “mean,”
instead of KE who he thought was “prettier.” We left.

Reader emails the next day. Side note: this was my first
email from a reader and, therefore, the best email I’ve ever received.

“I met
you and your girlfriend last night...I was the wasted dude who said she was the
prettier than you...you are very sexy...if you[’]d like a casual sex friend let
me know...text me if you want me to buy you a drink.”

I might
have texted reader for a drink (and it might have lead to casual sex), but the
drink was tainted. I’m not some gumball machine that you put some money into
and a prize pops out. I declined.

He
responded by asking me to “use him,” or in the alternative to at least meet up with
him for a spot of tennis (I don’t know how to play). He also included a lovely
black and white photograph of himself, half-naked in his bed.

I’m not
gonna lie, Reader: You looked handsome in the photo. But if I wanted to use
you, I would have used your telephone number.

These
emails were the equivalent of saying some stupid shit at the end of the night
when someone’s already told you you’re not getting laid. "Do you want to see
it?" Answer: No.

Which
brings me to my question. Why is it that when someone is open about loving sex
(doesn’t everyone, really?), other people automatically assume that person wants
to have sex with them?